Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

poised Ids harpoon with both hands, keenly eyed the British Captain—shouted in a tre mendous voice—“ Now for it,” and drew back his arm as in the act of throwing the fatal iron! The Englishman was a brave man—which is not always the case with bullies—and he had often marched without flinching, up in the mouth of a camion. And if he had been in single combat with an adversary armed with a sword or a pistol, or even a dagger or a Queen’s arm, he would have bore himself manfully. Indeed, he had tilready acquired an unenviable notoriety as a duelist, and had killed bis man. But the harpoon was a wea pon with which' he was altogether unoequain, rod—and the loud and exulting tone of the Yankee Captain’s voice soundeJ like a sum mons to his grave. And when he saw the stalwart Yankee raise the polished iron—and pause for an instant as if concentrating all his strength to give the fatal blow, a panic terror seized him—his limbs trembled—his features were of ghastly pallor, and the cold sweat stood in large drops on his forehead. lie had not strength to raise his weapon—and when his grim opponent shouted, ‘Now for it, and shook his deadly spear, the British officer forgetting his vows of chivalry—his reputa tion as an officer, and his honor as a duelist, threw his harpoon on the ground, fairly turn ed his back to his enemy, and lied like a frigh tened courser from the field amid the jeers and jibes, and the hurrahs of the multitude assem bled by this time on the spot. Captain Bigbee’s duelling days were over. No man would fight with him. after his adven ture wth the Yankee. He who overwhelmed with insult and ridicule —and soon found it advisable to change into another regiment. Bs.it his story got there before him —and he was soon sent to “Coventry” as a disgraced man. He was compelled, although with great reluctance, to quit the service—and it may with great truth be said, that he never forgot the lesson he had received from the veteran whaler, so long as his name was Bigbee. THE SACRIFICE— a tai.s of morocco. The following story, illustrative of the reso lotion of a Jewish maiden, we cut from the Detroit Morning Post, to which paper it is con tributed by a correspondent, who professes to have been a resident in Morocco at the time of its occurrence. The Jews of the Empire of Morocco are admitted, on all hands, to be among the most degraded portions of the human family. Po litically slaves, as the Jews are, in all Mahome dan countries—their condition here is the more abject, that their tyrants are the most ignorant and fanatical of the barbarians. Men are made to be their own masters. The great concerns of the active world are intended to be carried on by men ; and among bodies who have no agency in them, human nature is not developed. The human being is not complete. He does not fulfil his capabilities. A man is intended by nature to be, not only the lord of his own household, but a part of the govern ing power of society. Take from a man his country —take from him aH concern in the conduct of public affairs—make him the abso lute slave to the will of another, and subject to insult and oppression whenever he goes abroad, and you strip himof all his virtues. The dig nity of human nature is lost. Hence politi cal liberty is the parent of all social blessings, and patriotism is the mother of all the manly virtues. The nature of women, on the contrary, may be perfectly developed within the domestic cir cle alone. Her character is not incomplete because she has no voice in public affairs. In times of tranquility and enjoyment, the duties of private life and the various excellencies which are called into play for dispensing hap piness within the social circle, abroad, afford ample scope for every amiable and elegant ac complishment. When the frown of fortune is upon us—the convulsions and reverses that attend tha private history of every family; poverty, sickness, and mger and difficulty, give opportunity to those attributes of fortitude, en ergy, tenderness, and moral heroism, which elevate the character of woman to that of a ministering angel. Enough is left to her, therefore, even where political liberty is un known, for the display of private excellencies. Her character will not have that high and in tellectual tone which distinguishes a highly lib eral state of society, (and especially the En glish and American women,) but it may pos sess all goodness and gentleness. We find, accordingly, admirable examples of female virtue and heroism—materials for romance, where all nobleness and greatness is extinguish ed among men under the. barbarism of despot ic governments. How beautifully lias Scott illustrated this in that inimitable and unique dramatic portraituie of Rebecca. Amongthe Jewesses of Barbary, equal characters are per haps not to be found, but similar fortune is not uncommon. A young Jewish girl, a few years ago; suf. sered for her faith, and atoned for a tempora ry error, with a fortitude and resolution, which has even in Morocco made her story memora ble. She was a maiden of no ordinary beau ty and gentleness, and found herself so perse cuted within her own family, that existence was a burthen. At any time, the lives of the Jews are wretched enough, but hers was rendered in tolerable by the blows and ill-treatment of a vixen mother, who, among other cruelties, wished to compell her into .marriage with a worthless fellow against her choice. It would be tedious to go through the detail of her misery. Her home was a place of torment, and sue had no otlter refuge—for a maiden is never safe from insult or violence, beyond the protection of her owu house and family. Aml their domestic despotism is such that no friend or relation would afford her un asylum. Under tliese circumstances, one evening, wl*en she had fled from blows and injury with in doers, end sat herself down outside tlio door —in tlie dc pers.tiun of lier heart, site formed tire sudden resolution of escaping from these torments by turning Mnomt. Tins is not un common among lire Jewesos. although I have known no instance of a Jew becoming a Mu»- •itlmati. lun not aware of nny absolute im pediment in thn Moorish religion : but tic . Moors held die Jews in *m:h sovereign can •oo»|<t, ecarcety applying m llwm tlie epillwt *r« diet it is doubtful whet tier ilu-v would I# received. Besides, the Jews, amidst all their degradation and timidity, are tenacious of their religion, to a miracle. In becoming renegade, a Jewess is, of coupe, exempted from the do minion of her family, is placed within the im mediate protection of the Moors, ifc admitted to the privileges of the rest of the women. She is taken care of and provided with a husband. The young girl we speak of, went with this object, up to the Castle, and sat down at the door of Kaid Mohamed Ben-Abou,one of the principal military chiefs of the empire. Kaid Abou is one of the most gentlemany, as well as the most enlightened, of the Moors. He endeavored to dissuade her from*her pur pose, to induce her to return home, and even with gentle roughness repelled her, but in vain. She was conveyed to the bashaw, but still ad hered to her resolution —which the Moors have, however, a very amiable, and a very reason able custom in such cases in giving the prose lyte three days for reflection —thus affording, time for the evaporation of passion, drunken, ness, or excitement. If, after that period, the fatal words are pronounced, and the ceremony of apostacy is past, the p negade can at no future time return to his religion, or ever at tempt to leave the country, without the assur ance of certain death, if detected. During the tlnce days of probation, the poor girl’s excite ment still continued sufficiently violent to sus tain her resolution in spite of the remonstran ces of her tribe. She became a Mooress, and was removed from their power. But alas ! Time and thought cooled the fever of passion : the desolation of her new world weighed upon her spirit: remorse and superstitious terror thronged upon her heart: the Rabbis and big otted of her sect found means to convey to her reproach and contempt of her tribe, and to im tate into action that far more intolerable self-contempt, which clings to a violated con science. The dreary world offered no hope to her, and she determined to atone for her er- i ror by her death—to die in the religion which she had insulted. She accordingly presented herself.to the authorities, and professed her re cantation. The penalty was well known, but as the case was singular, the bashaw referred it to the Emperor, and awaited his pleasure. Meanwhile the girl was confined in prison.— I The soldiers who arrived from the Emperor ] had orders to conduct her to his presence.- She set out on her journey to Morocco, with ! the composure of despair, She knew it was | the journey to her grave. During its contin uance (and it was long and fatiguing) she nev er lost her command. She had been guilty of one fatal weakness : it was to be her last. When conducted to the judgment seat, she | looked around upon the thousands of fanatical land savage soldiery without wavering, and i bowed herself before the Emperor, with fheek 'ness undismayed. Tiie present Emperor (or Sultan as he is | called) is by no means a cruel or blood-thirsty j man. On the contrary, in his private habits [lie is represented as affable and good natuied, I and in his public or sovereign character, almost [ uniformly temperate and wise. But, strange as it rnay seem, the Emperor is os much a | slave as the meanest of his subjects, to those | fanatical observations and ancient customs, up on the tenacious and inviolable support of which the very existence of the Moors, as a people, depends. Even he could not, as in the ! present case, wrest an immemorial law of the Empire without great risk. “ Demand of her,” said the Sultan, “ if what has been reported respecting her be true.” She mildly answered in the affirmative. “ Is she aware of the penulty, of immediate death “ Yes.” “ But inform her tlmt it is not yet too late. She is a fool to throw away her life in order to be reckoned among the dogs of the Empire, who have deceived her. She shall be provi ded for, and received among our own women. Let her look around and choose for herself a husband, among my chiefs.” “ I desired merely to die in the religion of my fathers.” This was the last and only answer that could be elicited. To spare her unnecessary pain, as she was yet speaking, a soldier from behind, at a private signal of the Emperor, struck the blow which banished from her eyes the dream-, like world around her She fell to the ground a martyr and a corpse. But what is most remarkable—over the grave of the Jewish maiden, the Moors them se/ees have erected a Saint-house, (as it is termed) which is equally respected with those of their own saints, scattered throughout the Empire. There the criminal may take sanc tuary—and thither the sick, the unfortunate,or the traveller, starting on a perilous journey, resort, to offer up their devotive supplications. Many singular stories are current, of wonder, ful cures effected, and remarkable interposi tions of Providence, in favor of pilgrims to that shrine. . DOUBT. Doubt, when radient smiles are shining, Bonbt, when Clasping hands are twining, Doubt, when honied words are flowing. Doubt, when blushes warm are glowing. But never doubt that truth sincere That glistens in a woman's tear. Doubt, when mirthful tone invites thee, Doubt, when gayest hopes delight thee, Doubt, whate'er is fondest, fairest, Doubt, whate'er is brightest, rarest. But oh, beleive that truth can live, | In hearts that suffer and forgive. We know not by whom the additional stan zas to “ John Anderson, mv Jo,” were writ, ten, but the exquisite tone of unalterable affec tion which pervades them, und the unconscious ness of time’s progress which that purity of love engenders, could never have been more simply or more touchingly expressed : John Anderson, my jo, John, They any 'ti* /orly ywir Bincc I ca'd you my jo, John, Mince you ca‘d me your dear I'm sure u canna tie, John, Nor near me loan ago . Ir'a hut ■ honeymoon al mats', John Aiidcraou, my jo. What Iraida ftiMer than a streak of light- I mug? Answer— Slander, TIIE SOUTHERN POST. From the Kennebeck Journal. “LET EVERY MAN MIND HIS OWN BUSINESS.” This is a good maxim, but its application is sometimes questionable. We have lately seen it applied to the friends of temperance who try to stop others from drinking rum. Let every man drink who chosses, says one, —‘it is nobody’s business but Ins own. Well, thought we, as we laid down the pa per, perhaps it must be so—we cannot force people to be sober; so as the bell has rung for nine, we’ll shut up the office, go home and go to bed. On our way we heard a tremendous racket in a low, dirty looking building ; and amid the din, the shrill cry of murder was dis tinctly heard. We rushed in and found a great, ragged, brute of a fellow, with blood shot eyes, mauling his wife and children with an old ricketty chair. We wrenched his wea pon from him and tumbled him into a corner, from which he was too drunk to extricate him self speedily. We asked him what he meant by such conduct. “ What is that to you ?” said he—“ Let every man mind his own busi. ness.” We cleared for home and went to bed.— \bout two or three o’clock m the morning, we were awakened by a rumpus in the street. There was loud swearing and cries of “take him off—he is stabbing me.” We ran out and found two or three young men, all very much intoxicated. They had been playing billiards or some other game at a gambling house till that late hour, and having been strip, ped of their money by black-legs, and a good deal fuddled withal, they were in a very savage humor, and fell out and quarrelled by the way. We ventured to say that the places where they had been ought to be shut up, but one of them indignantly replied, “Let every man mind his own business.” So we went to bed again. Next morning we went to pay our taxes. “ Higher than ever,” said we, “how’s this?” “Oh,” said the treasurer, “ the town has had so much to pay for paupers.” “ Well, but what made so many paupers 7” “It was rum, I suppose.” We asked an old citizen if nothing could be done by striking at the root of the matter. “ Perhaps there might,” said he, “ but then people generally think it is best to let every one mind his own business.” While we were at dinner that day, a poor •woman, pale, dirty and cadaverous, came to the door. She had two children with her as haggard as herself. She begged for cold vic tuals, old clothes—any thing. She did not tell her story, because she had been there fre quently before, and told all to the good woman of the house. We inquired about her case, and was told it was pretty much like fifty others within a circuit of a few miles. Her husband was a poor drunken scamp, who spent all the money he could get for rum, while his wife and children were fed in part from our kitchen. Going from dinner we met the identical fellow in the street, and asked him why he did not go to work. What do you think he said I Why, “ Let every man mind his own business.” Having u Hole tu pay in the hunk 111 a few days we hurried back to the office and began to turn over the leaves of our big ledger, to see who owed money which ought to be col lected. There was Tom Nokes, owed $6, marked G. T. (gone to Texas.) Had been good, but took to drink, and ran away in debt. Bill Swizzle owed 97 50—always loved a drop, but was formerly considered a moderate drinker; used to pay for his paper; since sold his farm and went into trade—sold rum and was his own largest customer in that line; fell through—now good for nothing. Ezekiel Swig owes S3 75—once quite re spectable —had property —dead, and estate insolvent —farm in the possession of the man who sold him his rum. Benjamin Burster, dead—balance against himof @9 25, for paper and and advertising— broke his nock by a fall from his horse. Sam Cocktail died of delirium tremens; — owes for three years—lost his property by gambling and drinking—family very destitute. Can’t ask them to pay any thing. Well, thought we, perhaps it is right that eve ry man should attend to his own business, and let that of other people alone, but who is to pay our note in bank? Have we not some business in this matter ? EXTRAORDINARY DISCOVERY, The Chronicle de Paris, relates the follow, ing extraordinary scene as having taken place at the Court of Assizes. A youth of about 19 years wasbro(%ht to trial for having broken the window of a baker’s shop, and stolen a two-pound loaf. The President. —“ Why did you steal the loaf?’" Prisoner. —“ I was driven by hunger.” “ Why did you not buy it ?” “ Because I had no money.” “ But you have a gold ring on your finger ; why did you not sell it ?” “lama foundling ; when I was taken from the bank of a ditch, this ring was suspended from my neck by a silken cord, and ( kept it in the hope of thereby discovering at least who were my parents ; I cannot dispose of it.” The Procureur du Roi (King’s attorney) made a violent speech against the prisoner, who was found guilty, and sentenced to im- I prisonment for five years. Immediately upon I this, a woman, more worn down by poverty than age, came forward and made the follow ing declaration : “Gentlemen of the jury: Twenty years ago, a young woman was seduced by a young man of the same town, who after deceiving, abandoned her. Poor and distressed, she wa3 obliged to leave her child to the care of Provi. dence. The child has since grown up, and the woman and tlie seducer have grown older: the child in poverty, the woman in misery, and her seducer in prosjierity. Tliey are all three now in court. The child is tlie unfortu. nute prisoner whom you have just pronounced guilty; the mother is myself; and t lie re sits tlie fattier !” pointing to the Procureur du Roi. EITHER WAV WILL DO. "Wilt have me Sarah l” said • voting man u> a modeat girl. "So. Joko," Mid the girl, “but v«u may have ./* if you will." BIANCA—AN AUSTRIAN TALE. The place of the Countess of Florenheim was throng ed with lordly company. Every splendid saloon had been throwp open ; but among the beaoteous forms assembled there, the young Countess herself was the most admired. It might be that every eye looked in almost determined admiration upon one ao gentle, and so distinguished by birth and fortune. But the young and innocent Bianca was very lovely. The usual ex pressions of her large hazel eyes was eloquent tender ness, her features were beautiful, and every movement of her tall and delicate form was by nature graceful; tlftugh her dress was adorned by jewels of immense value, its appearance was less magnificent than simple. That day she had taken possession of her princely wealth ; and, for the first time, she appeared as the mistress ofher own palace; her manner was perfectly dignified and easy, but during the whole evening, the rich bloom of her cheek was brightened by a continual blush. The Empress remains some hours at the Florenheim palace, delighted with the appearance and conduct of the young and noble orphan. The parents of the Countess had deserved and enjoyed the favor of the sovereign”, and Maria Theresa loved to distinguish their child. Every guest had departed ; and the young Countess stood alone in her spacious and magnificent saloons. She pressed her hand for a moment over her eves, for they ached with the glare of the tapers still blazing around her. She looked at the beautiful flowers which hung in fading garlands round the room and sighed. With a true girlish fancy, she took down along droop ing branch of roses from the tall candelabra beside her; the blossoms were all faded—she sighed again ; her heart had not been in the gaiety and splendor of the evening, and now she hsd leisure to attend to the silent thoughts ofher bosom. She thought of her betrothed husband, and she could not help reproaching herself for having shared in any way he festivities around her whilst Ernest Alberti was exposed to the dangers of war- As the young Countess was retiring to rest, the ar rival of a person, who earnestly requested to see her that very night, was announced ; she hesitated at first, but after a few moment’s consideration, she consented to appear. She returned to the deserted saloon and there waited till the man was introduced to her pre sence. She recognised at onee the servant of the Count Alberti, and dismissed her attendants. How often did she tremble, how often did she turn pale witli horror, during the short interview! Ernest has fought with his general officer, against the positive commands of the Emperor; the general had been mortally wounded, and Alberti was disgraced; a high reward was upon his life. He had, however, escaped, his servant knew not whither. Many months passed away, months of doubt and sorrow to the hapless Bianca. The young deserter was never heard of; and the festive magnificence which had flashed for a moment in the palace of the Countess, entirely disappeared. AH Vienna talked of her engagement with Ernest, and many pronounced the Engagement to be dissolved It was said, that the Empress herself had forbidden the young Countess to think of the disgraced Alberti. Bianca was certainly commanded to appear at Court, and she did refuse. Many of the young courties determined to pay more than usual attention to the very beautiful and very wealthy heiress. She appeared, but none presumed to insult her sorrow with her addresses ; her real, artless grief, invested her with a dignity which no one dared to infringe upon. She did not attempt to conceal how severely the blow had fallen upon her; but her grief, though silen’, and seeming to claim no interest, was quietly majestic. Calm and pale, she stood among tne ladies of the court, an object of respect and admiration even to the Empress herself. A year pa*sed away. The general whom Albe'ti had wounded was not dead but he had met with so many relapses that his recovery was still pronounced uncertain. Bianca continued a quiet mourner, but now her alliance was sought by many of the noblest houses of Austria ; gently, and firmly, every proposal was declined. For the first time, the Empress inter ested herself in the suit of the Prince, one of Bianca’s enthusiastic admirers. The young Countess did not repel the confidence which her sovereign sought; she disclosed with affecting earnestness tbs feelings of her heart, and the principles on which she acted; before she quilted the Empress, she perceived that her feelings were understood, she guessed tha, Ui. principles were approved. . The mother of the Count Alberti was living; and still presided over the household of her son. The Coun tess Bianca was now a constant visitor at the Alberti palace; and a few days after the above mentioned in terview with the Empress, the aged Countess and Bianca were conversing almost cheerfully together; they were elated with hope, tor the petitions which hsd been presented in behalf of Ernest seemed to be suc cessful. The Empress had herself written to the Coun tess Alberti, the letler was in Bianca’s hand. Sud denly a person entered the saloon ; it was the old and faithful servant of Alberti; he told them new* that al most overwhelmed them. The young Count bad re turned ; he had been brought to Vienna with a gang of desperate banditti; he was said to be the captain of men who were outlaws, robbers, and murderers. Alas! alas!” exclaimed the old Countess and she gazed with a look of heart-broken sorrow on a magnifi cent portrait of her late husband ; “ this is to be the end of the house of Alberti. Your only son, my be loved Conrad, the child of our hopes, will he prove a shame to his father's name ? It is well you are not here, it is enough that I survive to witness ourdisgrace.” “ Ernest will never disgrace you,” cried Bianca ea gerly. “We know him much better,” she added, clasping the trembling hands of the Countess, with ten der affection; “there is much to he explained in this story, dear, rash Ernest,” she faltered, leaning her head on the Countess’s shoulder, and burst into tears. * We know him better; he may be wild and faulty, but he never will disgrace any one.” "He never will, you are right,” replied the Countess “ I spoke hastily. I ought to hope, I ought to believe better things of my beloved son. Daughter of my love, I was very wrong to doubt him for a moment; you judge him righdy. Bless you, bless you, my sweet Bianca t" Alberti had been indeed brought to Vienna among the banditti of Istria : every proof was against him. He was condemned to be broken on the wheel, and there seemed no hope that the sentence might be miti gated. Ernest himsell told an improbable story about his not being connected with the banditti; but nobody listened to it, and he mentioned it no more. Bianca and his mother did believe him. The account was perfectly true. „ The Countess Alberti, with the young end lovely friend, used every exerion to prevent the execution ; but the verdict appeared irrevocable. The day, the | dreadful day of death was fixed, and they implored an audience of the Empress; the aged mother, the be trothed wife, lay at her feet in epeeehleas agony; they entreated, they clung to her in the delirium of their gnef. Their gentle eovereign wept with them, ahe en deavored to conaolve him ; but although her whole frame trembled, and her voice faltered with agnation a# ahe replied to their entreaties, her answer left them quite hopeless. They obtained, however, permission to see the prisoner before the execution and even this had been denied to every one. An unforeseen circumstance saved the life of AlSerU. The captain of tha banditti, who had nut twan taken With his companions, heard that Ernest was condemn ed 'o die. Ife had been once e man of honor htmeelf; and he gave himaetf up to luauee, and proved clearly that the Count had not joined his band, and had always indignantly refused when asked to join it. The sen tence was, therefore, changed, and the noble and gal lant Count Ernest was condemned, in the prime of manhood, to become a workman for life, in the quick silver mines of Idria. The first surprise, which made known to the aged Counters her son’s safety, was joyful; but her grief soon returned as she thought upon the dreadtul termi nation which awaited all her hopes for him. But Bi anca was young and ardent, and the worst that could happen was a joy to her. She devoted her whole heart, and every energy ofher mind, to a plan which she in stantly resolved to execute ; which was, to accompany herbetrothed and share his imprisonment. Not only the mother of Count Alberti, but even the Empress her self endeavored to dissuade the lovely Bianca from such a rash resolution. Thev pictured to her her own title and fortune—that the moment she married Alberti, her estates and title would be forfeited to the crown, and she be the simple wife of an Idrian miner; and that she would be obliged to perform even the duties of a menial servant to her husband. “Countess Bianta of Florenhem," continued the Empress, “can you dare to undertake such a sacrifice? Are you aware that your mind may now be upheld by an uncertain enthusiasm? Have you thought upon the drear, dull calm of poverty, and decaying health ? Do yon feel assured, that when the first tumultuous feelings have worn themselves out, when there are none around to wonder at your extraordinary devotion to Alberti, when your name will bq almost forgotten, indeed, by all but a few friends whom you will never behold again, do you think that you will then rejoice at the decision you have made ? When, perhaps, your husband may be dying in the morning of age, with no attendant but a weak, helpless wife, who may be then too ill even to stand beside him ; then what will you feelings be ?” The Empress repeated her question, for the words which preceded it had absorbed Bianca’9 thoughts. She pictured to herself the young and vigorous Ernest wastingaway, dying in her presence ; she forgot her self, and all but his sufferings. Slowly she raised her head as the Empress again addressed her. “ What will my feelings be ? Ah ! I can scarcely imagine what they will be. Sorrow, certainly sorrow, but only for him, that must be the prevading feeling at such a moment. Happiness,” her whole face brightened with smiles as she spoke, “ real joy on the own account, to know that I am with him then, to hope, to believe, that I shall soon be with bim/oretter." Bianca continued to speak, and it was evident that her mind had antici pated and dwelt on the miseries that awaited the wife of Alberti. Maria Theresa listened to hear with profound atten tion ; she asked once again, “ Do you determine to follow Ernest Alberti to the mines of Idria as his wife, and to resign your rank and possessions ?” Bianca sunk on tier knee, she raised her clasped hands, and exclaimed, “I am but too favored by God and my sovereign, if I may follow him. I resign my rank and property, with joy, with gratitude." ' Again,once again, the Empress fixed on Bianca an earnest and searching look, and appeared t-> think deeply. “I am satisfied—l am quite satisfied,” she said at length, and the sternness of her look disappear ed; “I cannot countenance, but I shall not oppose your marriage.” Bianca had been comparatively calm before, but now she covered her face with her hands, and sobbed al most hysterically. Maria Theresa would have raised her, but Bianca sprang up from the ground, her face beaming with delight, though the tears hung upon her cheeks. “Oh ! forgive me,” she said eagerly, “ your i.; s i...cot ~111 me. Do not mistake my tears for sorrow, I am so happy that I must weep.” Bianca went, and with her husband, to the mines. The dismal hut of a workman in the mines of Idria, was but a poor exchange for the magnificent palace ot the Count Alberti, on the banks of the Danube, which was now confiscated to the crown; though a small estate was given to the venerable and respected Coun tess during herlife. But Bianca smiled with a smile of satisfied happiness, as, leaning on her husband's arm she stopped belore the hut which was to be their future home. • The miner's hut became daily a more happy abode ; the eyes of its inhabitants were soon accustomed to the dim light, that had seemed so wrapt in darkness when they first entered the mines, gradually dawned into dis tinctness and light. Bianca began to look with real pleasure on the walls and rude furniture of her too nar row room. She had no time to spend in use'ess sor row, for she was continually employed in the necessa ry duties of her situation ; she performed with cheerful alacrity the most menial offices, she repaired her hus band’s clothes, and she was delighted if she could some times take from an old shelf, one of the few books she had brought with her. The days passed on rapidly ; and as the young pair knelt down at ihe close of every evening, their praises and thanksgivings were as fer vent as their prayers. Ernest had not been surprised at the high and virtuous enthusiasm which had enabled Bianca to support, at first, all the severe trials they un derwent without shrinking; but he was surprised to find that in 'he calm, the dull hopeless calm, of undi minished hardship her spirit never sank; her sweetness of temper and unrepining gentleness rather increased. Another trial was approaching. Bianca, the young and tender Bianca, was about to become a mother; and one evening, on returning to his work, Ernest found his wife busily engaged with her needle. He sat down beside her, and sighed ; but Bianca was sing ing merrily, and she only left off singing to embrace her husband with smiles, he thought the sweetest smiles he had ever seen. The wife of one of the miners, whom Bianca had vi sited when lying ill of a dangerous disease, kindly of fered to attend her during her confinement; and from the arms of this woman Ernest received his first born son ; the child, who, bom under different circumstan ces, would have been welcomed with all the care and splendor of noble rank. But he forgot this, in his joy that Bianca was safe; and stole on tiptoe to the room where she was lying. She had been listening for his footstep, and as he approached, he saw in the gloom of the chamber her white amis stretched towards him. “ I have been thanking God in my thoughts.” said Bianca, after her husband had bent down to kiss her, "but lam so weak ! Dear Ernest kneel down beside the bed, and offer up my blessings with your own."— Surprising strength seemed to have been given »o this delicate mother, by Him “who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb;” and she recovered rapidly from her illness. Shortly after this an express arrived from Vienna in quiring if Alberti or his wife were still alive. A few hour* after, another person arrived in the same haste, ,nd on the same errand; they were, the one a near re la lion of Bianca, the other Alberti's fellow soldier and most intimate friend. Pardon had at langth been grant ed to the young exile, at the petition of the general offi cer, whom he had wounded ; and Alberti was recalled by the Empreaa herself to the Court of Vienna. The bearers of these happy tidings immediately de fended into the mine*. As they approached Alberti’* hut the light which glimmered through some apertures in the (haltered door, induced them to look at its in mates before they entered Though dressed in a dark, ooarae garment, and waated away to an almost incre dible slighmeae, still enough of her former loveliness | remained to tell them, that the pallid female they be- 1 held wss the young Countess; and the heart admired her more, as ahe sat leaning over her husband, and holding up to hi* kisses her small infant, her dark hair aare'eialv parted, and bound round her pale brow, •etmmg to b*o but in her husband's lovt-ihan when elegance had vied with diamonds; and in full health and beauty, she had been the one gazed at and admi red in the midst of the noblest aod fairest company of Vienna. The door was still unopened, for Bianca was singing to her husband ; she had chosen a aong which her hearers had last listened to in her own splendid sa loon, on the last night she had sung there; the soft complaining notes of her voice had seemed out of place i there, where all was careless mirth and festivity; but its tone was suited to that dark s litude—it was like the song of hope in the cave of despair. There were many hearts that sorrowed over the de parture of the young Alberti and his wife frem the ! mines of Idria. The miners, with whom they had liv- - l ed so long, had learned to love them, at a time, when * roo many a heart had almost forgotten to love and to-' hope; had learned from their kind words, but more - oil! much more from their beautiful example, to shake off the dreadful bands of despair, and daily to seek, and to find, a peace which passed all understanding. Ernest and Bianca had taught them to feel how happy,, how cheerful a thing religion is! Was it then surpri sing that, at their departure, their poor companions should crowd around them, and weep with mournful gratitude, as Ernest distributed among them his work ing tools, and the simple furnitute of his small hut? Was it surprising, that Bianca and her husband, as they sat on the green grass, with waving trees and a cloudless sky above them, while the summer breeze bore with it full tides of freshness and fragrance from their magnificent gardens, and they beheld the pure rose color of health begin to tingo the cheek of their delicate child : was it surprising that they should turn with feelings of affectionate sorrow to the dark and dreary mines of Idria? I must not forget to mention, that Ernest and his wifa were publicly reinstated in all their titles and posses sions. A short time after their return to Vienna, they made their first appearance at Court for that purpose. At the imperial command, all the princes and nobles of Austria, gorgeously dressed, and blazing with gold and jewels, were assembled. Through the midst of these, guiding the steps of his feeble and venerable mo ther, Alberti advanced to the throne. A deep blush seemed fixed upon his manly features, and the hand | that supported his infirm parent, trembled more than the wasted fingers he tenderly clasped. The Empress herself hung the order of the Golden Fleece round his I neck, and gave into his hands the sword which he had , before forfeited ; but as she did so, her tears fell upon the golden scabbard ; the young soldier kissed them off with quivering lips. But soon every eye was turned to the wife of Alberti, who, with her young child sleeping in her arms, and supported by the noble-minded Gen eral, who had obtained her husband's pardon, next ap proached. Bianca had nut forgotten that she was only the wife of an Idrian miner, and no costly ornament adorned her simple dress. Not a tinge of color had yet returned to her cheeks of marble paleness, and a sha dowy languor still remained about her hazel eyes ; but her delicately-shaped lips had almost tegained their soft crimson dye, and the dark-brown hair, confined by a single ribbon, shone a9 brightly as the beautiful braid ed tresses around her. She wore a loose dressof whits silk, adorned only with a fresh cluster of roses (for since she left the mines, she was more fond than ever of flowers.) Every eye was fixed on her, and the Em press turned coldly from the glittering forms beside her, to the simple Bianca, Descending from the throne- Maria Theresa hastened to raise her ere she should kneel; and kissing her with the tend er affection of a dt ar and intimate friend, she led the trembling Bianca to the highest step of the throne. There she turned to the whole assembly, and looking as a queen as she spoke, said— “ This is the person whom we should all respect as the brightest ornament of our Court. This is the wife, ladies of Austria, whom I, your monarch, hold up as your example—whom I am proud to consider far our superior in the duties of a wife. Shall wa not learn of her, to turn away from the false pleasures of vanity and splendor, and like her, to act up, modestly but firmly, to that high religious principle, which proves true nobility of soul. Count Alberti,” continued the Empress, “every husband may envy your residence in the mines of Idria. May God bless you both, and make you as happy, with the rank and wealth to which I now fully restore you, as you were in the hut of an Idrian miner.” CENTENARY OF METHODISM. The present year, being the first centenary of Methodism, is celebrated as such by the followers of Wesley throughout the world. In England more than a million dollars had been contributed as a thank-offering at the last ac counts, and a much largbr sutli is anticipated during the year. In the United States, the Methodist Episco pal Church have resolved on a similar cele bration, and in various parts of the country the work has commenced. At the late New York conference it was resolved that sub scriptions be opened in all the churches, and the first preparatory meeting for the city of New York was held on Monday in the Greene street and Forsyth street churches. The Rev. Bishop Waugh presided, assisted by twelve vice presidents. Dr. Palmer and John B. Hall were appointed secretaries ; and after very able and spirit-stirring addresses by the Rev. Mr. Janes, Rev, Dr. Bond, of Balti more, Rey- C. A. Davis, Rev. Dr. Bangs, and others, the centenary contributions were soli cited, and we learn that more than seven thousand dollars were received in subscrip tions and donations, in sums varying from a thousand dollars to ten cents. This amount is to be increased by similar met tings in all the churc’tes. The whole centenary fund is to bo divided between the superannuated preachers and the widows and orphans of deceased preachers, the cause of education and Christian missions at home and abroad. N. Y- Com- Adt, EQUALITY. I dream’d, that buried in my feilow clay, Close by a common beggar’s side I lay And, as so mean a neighbor shocked my pride, Thus, like a corpse of consequence, I cried : “ Scoundrel, begone! and henceforth touch me not. More manners learn—and, at a distance, rot" “ How, scoundrel!” in a haughtier tone cried he; “ Proud lump of dirt, I scorn thy words and thee; Here all are equal; now thy case is mine; This is my rotting place and that is thine.” “SWEET POESY.” . , The poets don’t all live in Wisconsin. A correspondent has sent us a sublirqe pflusion of which the first stanta runneth thus ; Old Uncle Bam ! Old Unci* Bam! Wliat an ass you are got to be am ; For you’ve been *o long plundr’d and ride ed it'* a w onder you an't long ago died'ed ' Young man, you had better get down. I* ® dangerous to climb so very high. The publication of tlie Ncw-York Tran* cript ha* been discontinued.